Conferences: the Mirror of Stark Reality

Nifty title. Decided to keep it. It is near meaningless. Conferences aren’t. They are very important no matter where you are in your writer’s path.

I went to my first writer’s conference in 2004 in Denver. The world of writing was very new. I had two books finished—one a novel, one a self help. I’d never met my fellow WARA members, but I had a new wardrobe that I felt comfortable wearing. I signed up for the conference on-line. I roomed with myself, knowing I’d need some solitude. The only thing familiar to me was the town. When I left rural southwest Kansas after graduating high school, I moved to Denver and for six years worked a couple of jobs in the downtown area as well as had fun in the mountains.

Oh, I planned for this conference. Every detail was studied in advance. I was going to soak up as much information as I could on this new thing—the writing and publishing world. How did other writers live with the other worlds in their heads? What was a POV? A Golden Heart winner? I even planned how to escape up into the pines for a while to breathe free of the crowd. My laptop was with me to fill in the hours after the main events and before I lay my head to finally sleep. I scanned every word on networking does and don’ts and decided to don’t. I read up on how to communicate with people in meaningful conversations. I know, not everyone has to do that, but I wanted to be my shiny best.

My special hair fixin’s were ready. My bags were packed. I climbed into the car and took off. My car broke down. But it didn’t matter. I’d left a day early. My intention was to relax, have a good time, absorb what I could and finally meet another writer—maybe lots of them. I had no illusions. I’m not that interesting. I was there to learn and observe.

Here’s what I discovered. I’ve never been with a greater bunch of people in my life. I was welcomed at every turn. People were so busy networking they thrust themselves forward at every opportunity and asked me if I’d like to do all manner of things. They asked what I wrote, I told them. I ventured a few questions and a couple of kind souls shook their heads in dismay and escorted me to a workshop that they said I needed. And later they checked up on me to see how it had gone. I found in one workshop that if you don’t put writing first in your life, right after your children, that you’re not likely to get enough written to be an author of importance—dusting, cleaning and other things are no longer necessities. I attended every workshop that I could fit into.

I learned that others were fearful, and that a kind word and offer of support to a new Golden Heart winner got me invited to the Golden Heart party with her and her daughter—an invitation I didn’t inveigle. An experience I wouldn’t want to trade. A memory I treasure.

I found out that offering help in something like getting the book signing room ready meant that, as in my experience, volunteers were adequate but supplies were lacking. I’d come prepared and brought supplies. We all used them happily and were able to be done in good time. No one will remember that as a good time probably but me. Later I sat between two wonderful people at that book signing and found that helping out can mean putting a badge back together by sewing it. And the author thought that was a skill? She teaches writing.

I saw acts of perseverance. One poor attendee had slipped getting off the plane and after a trip to the emergency room, wheeled herself around the conference. I witnessed an act of sincere aching generosity. One writer had been told by her husband just before she left for the conference that her writing was a money drain, bring home a contract or quit. She had a trace of damp eyes as we all gathered in one of the lunch lines. Not too civilized, I asked her how things were going. (A civilized person would have given her space and ignored her, not being intrusive). She’d been assigned an appointment with an editor that did not suit her story. Another person in line at lunch that day, offered to give up her editor spot for her. Insisting she take it when she demurred. I encouraged her to take it. I hope she did. Both giver and recipient were blessed that day, whether they did the switch or not, for their hearts were full and I was blessed to observe that generous act.

I saw two women coming down the escalator, the one behind shooting excited fingers at the person just in front of her. There was only the three of us in that golden moment of time. The excited one mouthed something. I didn’t know who the woman in front was or why the woman behind her was so excited. The woman in front with short hair had no idea anything was going on behind her. I gave a smile and a thumbs up sign in the spirit of the moment and both women smiled, the woman in front a small curve, the one behind a beam. Neither saw each other’s face. I found out who Nora Roberts was later when I saw her picture in a book.

Another time, I was sitting in a corner with coffee and saw a well-selling team totally miss some important appointments and their agent nearly pulling out her hair. They later came waltzing in, totally oblivious to their error and entirely dressed wrongly for being seen by anyone with a camera. Three things learned. Even the famous can goof up and after you get famous make sure you’re camera ready if your agent has a date with you to meet people. Embarrassing your agent is not a smooth business move.

I was hijacked in elevators and hallways to go to meals, both inside and out of the Adams Mark Hotel, with perfect strangers. They were fascinating people with different experiences in the writing world. All I had to do was listen. The world opened up before me.

My WARA members finally found me. Bless them all. They made sure I was ok and could find them if I needed them. I treasure those moments too. I left during the business meeting. There was some heat in RWA that year, and I remember that I didn’t have an opinion so that’s the time I escaped up 6^th avenue and went to the piney woods in the mountains. I was gone all afternoon and when I came back was refreshed and ready for more.

My laptop was a casualty. It turns out that when shut down and in their case you still can’t treat them like luggage and toss them around. I talked myself hoarse and didn’t fully recover my voice for at least a week. But this is what I learned (besides craft things). I’ve never felt more at home with a group of people. Conferences are important, soul-saving important. Writers NEED to meet other writers. I feel so strongly about it that every year since I’ve donated to a writer’s group that gives money so that others can attend conference. I’ve been anonymous until this year. I haven’t been able to afford the time, nor the full expense to go, but I’ve helped others to go—that’s how strongly I feel it is necessary. Understanding. That is worth far more than anything else is. Support is wonderful. Families and friends can do that, but Understanding and finding understanding is indescribably comforting. That comfort sends tendrils down deep. My memories of that conference and the feeling of connection stay close to me like a worry stone in my pocket. There if I need it. I am not alone. Others of my kind are out there. I didn’t know I was a ‘kind’ until that conference.

So, what do you do for a conference? Prepare, relax, don’t force it, be ready with a helping hand, (supplies, tape, scissors, etc.) a smile, a pen, paper, a few cards to exchange, and a ready ear. Don’t worry over the clothing issue too much. Except the New York Professional crowd who appear to favor consistent black, you could meet people better dressed at a funeral or church. I expect it may be different depending upon the city, but I’ll bet not much. Those workshop rooms are generally well air-conditioned. Bring a sweater. Drink a lot of water. Don’t pitch a book to anyone in a place you wouldn’t accept a date in—the bathroom comes to mind. Above all, don’t worry. They’ll like you because they’re like you.